


Lovers' Leap

by luna65



Category: Hannibal (TV) RPF
Genre: Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Madancy, S3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna65/pseuds/luna65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Committed; in so many ways, but especially to that romance so obliquely written.  Their portrayal would be far more obvious...to everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entr'acte: exposition

**Author's Note:**

> Taking place over the filming of Season Three as a whole, illustrating - what all Fannibals now know - that the nuances of Mads and Hugh's performances brought Hannigram to life in a deeper way than the directions they were given (which is not a criticism of said writing or direction).

"So it's a fairy tale," Hugh said, looking out at the lights of Manhattan. He smiled down at page eight of the script in his lap.

"Once upon a time," Mads answered, completing the sentiment.

"This is the doomed romance so long promised."

"Yes. Are you ready?"

Even long-distance certain questions made him blush. "I'm ready to finally succumb to your virulent allure, Dr. Lecter," he answered in the American inflection of Will Graham.

"Are you also ready to let the larger truth shine through?"

Hugh rubbed at his beard, twisting in his chair, in the dark, a glimmer of amber from a glass of scotch keeping him company in one hand. "Hmmm," he murmured, then sipped.

"I am. But our collaboration only works if we decide to collaborate. I don't want you to hold anything back, even if Will does have to dwell in the depths of ambivalence."

"That crazy co-dependency you know isn't good for you, but you want it so badly," Hugh whispered.

"Yes."

Hugh heard the _snick_ of a lighter. 

"It's not an escape, for either of them," Mads declared after an exhale.

"No, it never has been. They want each other, in whatever way that is. I know that feeling."

"Do you?" A teasing nuance colors the question.

"Oh yes. Do you?"

"If you don't know by now..."

"You'll just have to show me all over again."

Mads laughed, a wicked chuckle. "You say that as if you think you can avoid such a thing."

"I know I can't. Everything else is a dream, but when I see you, it all comes into focus again."

"You have lovely dreams, and you cherish them, as do I. This is only an interlude, but it must be _everything_ in that moment."

"Yes, I promise. I won't hold back if you don't."

Hugh swore he could hear Mads smiling through the phone. "I never have."


	2. Act One: Rising Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Committed; in so many ways, but especially to that romance so obliquely written. Their portrayal would be far more obvious...to everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references several episodes but specifically 03x04 "Aperitivo."

During the table-read Hugh asked, "How can Hannibal carve -" he pointed to page five "'- with laparoscopic precision' when _he's not even looking down_?"

Bryan threw up his hands, "Murder Wizard!"

Mads smirked. "I am just that good."

"Did he practice...what?" Hugh laughed but he felt the scene might be too intensely _intimate_. Because on this show, it's not sex which is the ultimate intimacy.

"Will's 'smile' was not the punishment, it was the consummation."

"Yeah we've already been over _that_." Hugh is squirming a bit now as all eyes around the table turn to him.

He tried to inject as much pain as he could into the scene with Laurence, as Will is dissected for motive. The stares returned, but they are awe-struck. The silence stretched longer than he would have liked.

"That's excellent," Bryan said, "both of you are in such pain, we can understand it."

Laurence nodded, giving Hugh a smile. "It's like going to Meeting," he joked and there was soft laughter from the assemblage.

 

"Where does it hurt?" Mads asked, placing a hand on Hugh's stomach. Their bare legs slide against each other and Hugh flinched, ticklish.

"The scar, the penetration he continues to feel."

"The smile which is not happy."

"It's an ironic smile."

"People turn to faith to alleviate their pain. Does Will turn to Hannibal to alleviate his?"

"His confusion, his pain, his yearning."

"Show me."

A kiss tinged with desperation, hands which stroke skin, fingering bones, searching for the proof - the beloved is not merely an ideal or a phantom of a beleaguered imagination. Flesh tethers us in the world and in this moment: between white sheets and in the dark of a wintery city, they meet in an embrace which allows no space or light or breath that they do not share, intimately. Completely.

"He only wants to know the apology has been accepted."

"They are beyond apologies. Some relationships are just that deep."

Hugh pulled Mads on top of him. "Grind their bones to dust, that's what they should do."

"But they won't. Blood is what seals their bond, always."

Hugh smiled. "Should we take a blood oath, you and I?"

"Not merely the mingling of our fictional blood, which has been done. Do you think Hannibal licked Will's blood off his hands?"

"Yes. They couldn't show it, but I absolutely believe that."

"I do too."

And so they do - pricking fingers and sucking them - and feel themselves deeper inside the world they live each day, and exit each night, but which is never far from their consensual imagination.

 

"Alana really tries to nail Will down to the truth," Caroline noted over lunch.

"And he's not having it," Hugh grinned, then munched a forkful of salad.

"Well it's not like she doesn't already know."

Hugh nodded. "Knows from experience."

Caroline laughed. "How do you **do** that? Makes me feel complicit like that? Will just wrings the damage out of everyone like a -"

"- bloody washcloth."

"Yep." She took a drink of bottled water. "That scene is so powerful."

"For both of them."

"Is he going to go around ducking everyone's attempts at clarity?"

"Yeah, I think so. He's on a path no one else can travel."

 

"Friendship is blackmail elevated to the level of love," Mads quoted. "What does that say about either of them?"

"It says they want what they want, something no one else is capable of giving them."

"What do I give you?"

"You're my friend, you give me whatever I need."

"It has to go deeper than that."

Hugh mulled this assertion, taking a drag on Mads' cigarette then handing it back. He exhaled through his nose and looked off into space.

"You give me permission to be whatever, whoever, I feel like being. It doesn't matter to you because it's all me."

"All of you," Mads purred, with a last drag, then he crushed the butt in the bedside ashtray. "Whatever it is, it's all of you for all of me."

"You always manage to get underneath -"

"- that indomitable reserve."

"And nobody else can do that."

"None of your _friends_."

Hugh smirked. "Is this where I say 'Shut up and fuck me already'?"

"We have to _torture_ ourselves with possibility. That is what Hannibal and Will do."

"And we are, we will, but I need -"

"All of me?"

"Yes." It's barely a whisper, but they are close enough to hear even the slightest of suggestions.


	3. Act Two: Ceci n'est pas une histoire d'amour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Committed; in so many ways, but especially to that romance so obliquely written. Their portrayal would be far more obvious...to everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is primarily an examination of "Digestivo" - it appears out of order but shooting in Florence didn't take place until later in the production schedule.

"Who cares who Hannibal is killing?" Bryan declared during the weekly poker game. "The important thing is that he is _dying_ on the inside."

Mads nodded. "Of a broken heart."

"Exactly!"

"He can barely bring _himself_ to eat, which is why he keeps throwing all these dinner parties. And he's reckless, just like any heartbroken man would be."

The other players laughed, they were fond of Mads' macabre sense of humor, which was rather more dry than the glee Bryan displayed regarding certain notions, though they all readily admitted they were a dog pound full of sick puppies.

"Or is he only saving himself for Bedelia?"

"Does he _have_ to eat Bedelia?" Aaron asked with a comical pleading look. "We like her!"

"Bedelia is really the brains of the outfit, don't worry," Bryan assured him.

Mads examined his cards with another smirk. "For now," he said in Hannibal's voice.

"Dude you scare me when you talk like that!" Aaron exclaimed. but he was smiling.

Mads offered his own smile. "Good."

 

 

Hugh was on his laptop attempting to negotiate his way through an email interview, and Mads sat beside him reading the script for "Digestivo," pausing to mark lines with a highlighter, scribbling notes in the margins with a pen. He snorted.

"Wot?" Hugh asked, looking over.

"Did you read this?" Mads asked, holding up the script.

Hugh made a comical face. "Uh, _yes_."

"Did you see the movie?"

"Which movie?"

" _Hannibal_."

"Oh **that** movie. Yeah, it's been a while, though."

"It's a very -" Mads paused, seeming to search for the appropriate word, "- iconic? Image? When Hannibal carries Clarice away from the Verger farm."

"Okay -"

"And it's not like this!" Mads shook the script.

Hugh frowned, then realized what the other meant. "Oh! But Hannibal can't carry Will like that!"

Mads gave him a teasingly skeptical look. Hugh laughed.

"Murder Wizard, eh?"

"It _has_ to be like that. You know why."

"Yes dear, I don't imagine anyone is going to fight you on that."

The Look was offered once more.

"We're double-teaming them again?"

"What did I say? What did you promise?"

"Yes luv, I just didn't realize it was going to involve so many things, is all."

"It's everything: from the smallest detail to the biggest picture."

Hugh smiled. "Yes. Yes of course it is." He gave Mads a kiss to prove he understood.

 

In the dark, discussion was its own intimacy, often a greater one that mere physicality could provide.

"Alana asks Hannibal to rescue Will. She says _please_. When it happens, do you think Will even truly realizes he's been rescued?"

"He's traumatized."

"But lucid enough to call an end to the chase."

"He can't kill Hannibal. He knew that all along. Maybe he wishes Hannibal _had_ eaten his brains. He seems utterly defeated despite having escaped death...again."

"Hannibal has forgiven him another betrayal."

"Will is overwhelmed by the thought of the wrong thing being the right thing to do. He realizes how much it costs to truly make that choice."

"How does he know Hannibal will turn himself in?"

"Because Hannibal is the knight, isn't he? And a knight will always sacrifice himself for the one he adores."

"Courtly love."

Hugh smirked. "A particularly twisted version of it, at least."

"We must both be in pain for this scene to contain the proper emotional resonance."

"Naturally."

"You're rejecting me, if only for a moment."

"And I'm wishing I'd died, if only for a moment."

"I think I would, if something were to ever come between us."

Hugh sighed the other's name into an open mouth, wallowing in the thought as well as pushing it away from consideration. The kind of pain both agonizing and fascinating.

After a time Mads traced the bones of Hugh's face. "'I want you to know exactly where I am'...is that a promise or a threat?"

Hugh left a trail of soft bites along Mads' jawline. "Oh it's definitely **both** , my friend."

 

"So...does Hannibal like the smell of himself when he's being seared?"

Mads grinned. "Oh yes. He imagines he would be _most delicious_."

"Did he keep the brand, do you think?"

"Of course. He would be proud to say that he managed to slip the yoke even so."

Hugh ran his fingertips from the other's shoulder to wrist, from clavicle to hipbone.

"It's degrading but...sexual, somehow. In the grotesque imagination of this tableaux."

"Mason insists that Hannibal is _his_ now, but no one can own him."

"Not even Will?"

"Some beasts can't be caged," Mads quoted, "nor collared. It is more a type of willing concession. Surrender. But he knows Will would not hold the leash."

"Identically different."

"When you look into a mirror, what you see is not you, it is only what you perceive as yourself. What Hannibal and Will perceive of each other is different distortions of the same impulse."

"An antagonist situation in which they are ultimately sympathetic."

"To the _idea_ of being together, if not the reality."

Hugh sighed. "I think that's all it _could_ ever be, in either world." Green eyes looked into amber eyes. "An idea of love which can only be sustained in discreet moments."

"Do you oppose the notion?"

"No, I never would. Mere minutes, it will have to do."

"This moment -" Mads kissed him "- it was only a moment, but it was better lived than not."

"And this one?" Another kiss.

"And this one too." More kisses.


	4. another wine story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Committed; in so many ways, but especially to that romance so obliquely written. Their portrayal would be far more obvious...to everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the Florence shoot, and some of the past.

Take after take, Hugh could only marvel at Mads' physicality - but then again, he always did. Falling, skidding, tumbling, it was astounding the amount of abuse Mads was willing to put himself through. And after each take he would bounce to his feet, smiling.

"Rock n'roll!" he exclaimed after a run-through which was deemed acceptable. "That was fun!"

"Jesus, I think I broke something that time," Laurence grumbled, and they both laughed.

Hugh laughed with them, thinking about how grace was sometimes more of a state of mind rather than poise.

 

"Do you know how to tap dance?" This was a question suitable for a four-beer interval.

"Little bit," Mads answered, waving his hand back-and-forth in what Hugh always thought of as the _comme-ce comme-ca_ motion. "I learned a little of everything in the corps, sure. Why?"

"I always thought maybe I could do it. Soft-shoe, you know."

"I'm a terrible teacher, though, really. I always have a hard time explaining myself."

He remained deadpan for an instant longer and then they dissolved into laughter.

 

Martha was so glad to be in Italy, she was vibrating with joy, eternally smiling.

"I love it, I love it, you look so good in this light!" she said to Mads, taking his face in her hands, and he smiled indulgently.

"Bellissima," he said. "That's the extent of my Italian."

"I'll teach you more!" she exclaimed, then wandered off - desiring to share her ecstasy with others, her stars assumed.

"If only it weren't so cold," Hugh murmured, looking up at the waning afternoon. "It would really be romantic."

"It's not supposed to matter...if you're in love."

They exchanged a knowing look. They were on a break in an alleyway, each end cordoned off by security, but even so they could see gawkers lining up nearby, hoping to catch a glimpse of them on the job. Sipping hot coffee they leaned against a centuries-old building and each other.

"I'm getting used to those scars they gave you, they look better than mine."

Mads turned his face upwards, fluttering his eyelids. Hugh chuckled and put his head upon the other's shoulder.

"But I dunno if I can endure another pickled evening, if only because pasta and wine always sends me in a coma."

Mads laughed. "Fucking lightweight - that's what being in shape will do to you."

Hugh rolled his eyes, took another sip.

"When we sit before the painting, what are you feeling?" Mads asked.

"Relief, regret, revelation."

"Is it clear? What you are seeing?"

"No, because we're blurring. I see you, and I see myself."

"We are still mirror images of each other."

"And then - when drugged - I see us bleed into each other. Blend and merge."

"We need to tell them to show us like that, emerging entwined from the darkness, and into it."

"When I find you, come to sit beside you, I **do** love you, in that moment. I have come all this way to find you, because finding you is finding myself."

"Gentleman!" Martina called from one end of the alleyway. "We're ready for you!"

They took a moment to stand face-to-face, close enough to kiss.

"Conjoined."

"Always."

 

Every evening featured a communal dinner, with drinks beforehand, Martha supervised the blending of potent martinis, declaring they needed something clean on their collective palate before all the wine and rich food. Alcohol made them all expansive and humorous and affectionate. These were qualities they already possessed from two years of camaraderie, but being together in such a charming place, counting their blessings and feeling the love...it was easy as breathing. A dozen toasts, dirty jokes, war stories, so much laughter. Hugh looked across the table and smirked to see Mads' eyes turning just a bit red, already far into his cups and yet the man was capable of going on the razzle in an epic fashion and could still deliver a great performance the next day on very little sleep. That fatal charisma attributed to his alter ego was tapped at the source - Mads was a force of nature and a walking seduction. The intellectual romance was quickly turning into an actual one for him. Their natural affinity for each other - which manifested itself as a physical attraction which did not preclude any other in their lives - had deepened over time, but in the way in which friends grew closer when they grew together. Sometimes you outgrew your friends, or they did the same to you. But Mads had always been able to relate to Hugh, provide an attractive example of evolving viewpoints and emotional maturity, and make him laugh like no one else could...and he had many hilarious friends.

 

It rained in Ireland: this was an observable phenomenon. Therefore, on a day in which it did not rain, one might suspect some kind of eerie happenstance at the sight of the sun. Completely the opposite of normal expectations.

Once costumed and coiffed, Hugh found himself at Craft Services drinking coffee and squinting at a nearby field where cameras were being positioned for a sequence of shots. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular, other than being sleepy and believing it was far too bright.

"No tea for you?" a voice inquired as he poured himself another cup. He looked up into a bearded face, framed by tousled and braided hair. He smiled in response.

"Noooo, tea is for teatime. Mornings require coffee. _Particularly_ mornings that are too fucking bright."

Mads grinned and took a cup for himself. "Weird, huh? We need gloom. Gloom and mud."

"That was the Middle Ages, certainly." That earned him a laugh. "I know I'm going to sound terribly thick, but I can't remember how to pronounce your name. I don't want to mangle it, I hear you actually know how to use a sword."

Mads threw back his head and his laugh was also a type of sunlight: clear and bright. "You say it like a snake. Ma _ssss_. And yours?"

Hugh realized Mads was being friendly and appreciated the effort. "Like a type of color. _Hue_."

Mads nodded. "And now we are straight on that score."

"But I don't really know anything about Danish people, so you still have me at a disadvantage in cultural stereotypes."

A grin. "Oh that's easy; we drink a lot and we make beautiful furniture."

Hugh cracked up. "Have you, in fact, built a chair? A table, perhaps?"

"Noooo, I'm shit at building anything, in fact."

"Yes I can tell by your brooding Scandinavian countenance. It haunts you, it does, your lack of skill."

They laughed so loudly people paused to stare at them, and they tried to control the commotion, but continued to laugh the rest of the day, at various intervals. And when the day's shooting was complete and the cast went down the pub, they found themselves sitting next to each other, pints in hands, as if they were magnetized. The laughter came easily, day after day, especially when it involved jokes about building furniture, which no one else seemed to understand.

And Hugh felt like he had known Mads _forever_ , and furthermore wanted to continue knowing him for that amount of time. Couldn't imagine his life without that outsize presence, those amber eyes, and the grin which made him smile in turn, every time it was aimed his way.

 

"Wait, wait, which one of you is drunker?" Martha demanded.

They each pointed at the other. "He is," they answered in unison.

She laughed and clapped her hands. "Don't fall off the balcony!"

Outside the moon was kileg-bright. Mads perched on the barrier and lit a cigarette.

"If you fall over, I guess I'm going with you," Hugh teased. He looked down at the tile floor. "No traction."

"You didn't want one?" Mads asked, extending his pack to Hugh.

"I've had enough booze that I wouldn't be able to stop at one. Just give me a drag."

Mads chuckled and enacted their familiar ritual. "Can't we just film an entire season here?"

Hugh exhaled, then smiled. "I love Italy, but I honestly don't know how anything gets done."

Mads took a long drag. He swept his arm though the air, taking in the scene before them. "Love and faith and beauty."

"There you go, being romantic again."

Mads stood up, moving in and placing his forehead against Hugh's.

" _They know_ , you know. I could kiss you right now, and you know what they'd say?"

"That you're incredibly drunk."

"Sure, they might say that. But I think they'll say that Hannibal and Will's madness has infected us."

"Before you start going on 'bout that again, I know what you said and I know what I promised, but we're forcing his hand."

"Fucking well right!" Mads exclaimed, weaving as he said it, and Hugh steadied him in an embrace. He laughed in a sort of breathy way, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"You're really fucking doing it, aren't you? Making it perfectly clear."

"It's _real_. And if I can't say it I'm going to goddamn show it."

Hugh leaned against his chest, listening to Mads' breathing, closing his eyes. "We're drunk, remember this. But it **is** real, more than you'll ever know."

 

"Dancy! You can't hide from me!" Mads mock-roared outside a hotel room door.

It was opened quickly. "Christ, you idiot, what are you -"

"My god," Mads breathed.

Hugh grinned. In his gray striped Burberry suit he was simply stunning. "Is that an _actual_ invoking?"

He stepped back and Mads came inside, unable to stop looking at his friend.

"Yes, I believe it is, because that suit is fucking amazing."

"Why thank you, luv, Christopher insisted I wear a proper suit for my first big premiere; he loaned me two, actually."

"I feel under-dressed now."

"Never!"

"Did you want to ride with us?"

"Sure, if Hanne is okay with that."

"She might be jealous of your suit too."

Hugh chuckled. "I look that good, eh?"

Ensuring the door was closed, Mads took Hugh's face in his hands. "I'm sober right now."

Hugh swallowed heavily. "Me too."

"So...it's not like what happened the last time."

"I wasn't really drunk the last time."

"Me either, but -" Mads kissed Hugh, first firm and then soft, then kissed his forehead. "- when I say you look gorgeous, you know what I mean."

Hugh laughed, joyful and playful and flattered. "You can never look _bad_ , in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't, but it's nice to hear."

They embraced, attempting to work the tension out of their proximity before they would have to appear on display for public consumption.

 

Mads pulled down Hugh's jacket, pressing into and seeming to rub against him.

"Wait," Vincenzo said, waving a hand. "Mads, you're not fucking him."

Shocked laughter rang out and Hugh comically grimaced. "I'm not that sort of empath, you pervert," he said in Will Graham's American inflection.

It took a while for everyone to settle down for the next take. Mads turned to their director.

"Just let me run through it once, okay? Please. Then you can decide if it's too much."

Vincenzo nodded. He trusted his leads to know what they were doing, and the directions in the script were of an intimate nature. "Okay."

Mads leaned in and whispered in Hugh's ear. "Keep going, no matter what."

"Letting you have your way with me again, hmm?"

"At least this time I'm not feeding you an ear."

Hugh snickered, then took a breath to compose himself. "You are the _worst_ , oh you fucking beast."

"Marks, gentlemen." Vincenzo called out.

Mads mouthed, but did not say, _I am the devil_ , then grabbed Hugh once more.


	5. even (fallen) angels have their wicked schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Committed; in so many ways, but especially to that romance so obliquely written. Their portrayal would be far more obvious...to everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank one and all for your continuing patience. This chapter also moves back-and-forth in time, because the threat of cancellation tended to eternally hang like Damocles' sword, apparently.

They lived in a bubble, this was the way of production schedules and family time hoarded, carved from the implacable demands of a career and a life requiring effort expended. They each thought back to childhood and whatever might have been idyllic, a lens distorted if only by a lack of experience and not idealism. But their time together was equally precious, they moved through their work as a unit, and no one thought to question their constant proximity.

The best times were often mere moments when their expressions of friendship were easy and true.

Mads juggled whatever might be close to hand: this time a handful of hot-pink BeautyBlender sponges, waiting for Hugh. He always took longer because extra work was required to make Will Graham look more _ordinary_. 

"He's had a rough life, right?" Mads asked, staring out with three, then ending up with six sponges going round-and-round above his deft hands.

"You might say that," Hugh cracked as Katie and Verity were carefully applying strokes of contour pencil and powder to add a bit of premature aging to Will's face - stress, mental instability, nightmares, sheer terror - it needed to show. 

"He's just, like, -" Katie said, standing back for a few seconds to view their work then leaning in again to thicken a line on the side of his nose, "- just, so -"

"Too fucking pretty, huh?" Mads said, and Hugh could tell by the gleam in his eye he knew exactly what he was saying, though he could embody a particular guile intertwined with his accent. People generally tended to think Mads was less fluent in English than he actually was.

The ladies laughed, shocked, turning nearly as pink as the sponges in Mads' hands. But they were used to his cheeky sense of humor. Hugh crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

"Despite his best efforts, of course," Mads concluded, and this won him a guffaw from his co-star, the makeup artists immediately pausing in their work to allow Hugh a moment of mirth. Mads caught all of the sponges with one hand and his audience applauded and cheered.

 

Though the news of the cancellation was not unexpected, the finality hurt like a sucker punch to the gut, like that pain you feel when something is confirmed which breaks your heart.

After Bryan's phone call his shaky fingers found a particular entry in his contacts and pressed it. The answer was a breathy "Hi."

"Are you okay?"

"I don't particularly sound it, do I?" Hugh had a quaver in his voice which Mads knew was sorrow he was attempting to minimize.

"I'm not," Mads said, feeling another tear run down his cheek.

"I figured you'd be stoic."

"Because it's the Danish thing to do, of course," Mads teased.

"No, the Danish thing to do would be to build a chair. The Scandinavian thing to do would be to brood. Forever."

Mads laughed uproariously and his tears didn't feel so painful then. He wiped at his face, sniffed and coughed, breathed deeply.

"I love you."

"I love you too. But they killed our child."

The way Hugh said it didn't contain any irony or flippancy or sarcasm. It was as serious a thing as he could say.

"No, they couldn't. They stilled its potential but they can't ever kill what we created. All of us, but especially _us_."

It was a thing they would never actually espouse: no matter all the contributions and hard work of everyone involved, and the twisted genius of the creator, this was _their_ story - the central concern, the overriding obsession, the romance.

Hugh's voice cracked as he sighed then spoke. "Oh god I sound so melodramatic! But there 'tis."

"I never wanted it to end, even if it was allowed to reach its natural end."

"A lovely little world, for certain. Filled with blood and madness."

"What a gift we were given. I wish I could have -"

"We did everything we meant to, everything we wanted to. But -"

Actual sobs broke over his reserve and washed away whatever Hugh was meaning to say.

"I'm just rambling, my friend, it's okay."

"No, I'm not talking about that. I just realized that I'm actually in love -"

Mads cut in, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to stop the admission for Hugh's sake or for his.

"It's okay -"

Hugh laughed, sounding a bit hysterical. "No luv, it's really not. We need to get _massively pissed_ and we can't do that and -"

"It's heightened emotions, it's just that."

"Listen to me, I am saying I am _in love_ -"

"No, man, don't say that right now. If you can still say it tomorrow then I'll listen."

"Why?!"

"Because tomorrow it will already be behind us. Everything has changed, and nothing has changed. Think about it that way."

Hugh sighed. "See, I knew you'd be stoic."

"And I'm building you a chair."

Hugh finally let out a genuine belly-laugh, and Mads felt slightly relieved.

"Absolutely gorgeous, but highly suspect when it comes to functionality."

Mads smiled. "You know me so well."

 

"What are we gonna do if they cancel it?"

Hugh seemed generally concerned, staring into his pint, enduring Mads' fixation on Pink Floyd yet again. This time his friend had hauled out a karaoke setup and demanded Hugh sing "Wish You Were Here," even when he demurred several times that he couldn't sing as high as David Gilmour and he wasn't that kind of singer anyway. 

"I can only sing _theatrically_ , which is a different thing than a rock song."

"You know what I've been listening to in the mornings?"

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"That Rihanna song, 'Love The Way You Lie.'"

"I don't think I know it? Unless I've heard it the car somewhere."

"The obsession people have with being self-destructive. Mutually self-destructive."

"It's definitely twisted," Hugh said before a long swallow.

"People are fascinated with it. They are coming around to caring about our obsession. They're curious."

"Curious enough to save us beyond a first season? I hope so."

"We are only ourselves," Mads proclaimed, raising his glass, "and that will be enough."

"At this point I don't even care if anybody is watching. I just don't want it to end. Did he know what he was starting with this, do you think?"

Mads laughed. "He came to you in the midst of a production about a man being broken on the wheel of obsession. He had your number alright!"

Hugh stood, feeling himself flush and knew he hadn't drunk enough for that to be the cause.

"I'm an _actor_ , Mads. You're an actor. We are paid to be convincing about _anything_."

"And you convinced him you were the one for this, the one for me. Two-parts chemistry to one-part ability."

Hugh smirked. "That's questionable maths, mate, but I don't think -"

"Who cares?!" Mads shouted and Hugh nearly dropped his glass in surprise. "You asked if I thought Bryan knew, and yes, I think he did. But what he knew may be something different than we know. But think about it...doesn't Vanda ask Thomas if there was something in him which is being expressed in the play? There's always _something_ of our deeper selves in everything."

"Are you trying to say Will is as obsessed with Hannibal as Hannibal is obsessed with Will?"

"I'm saying that Hannibal is attempting to show Will that they are equally unique, and he must accept this."

Hugh sat down again against Mads, leaning his head against the other's shoulder, stroking his thigh.

"We're not that much alike, really. We just like what we see."

Mads smiled. "Their journey is our journey, even if you want to write it off as _pretend_. Now are you going to sing for me?"

"I need another beer first. This is so _silly_ , Mads."

"So you're too good for being silly, is this what you're saying to me?"

Hugh smiled, though he couldn't help but feel just the slightest bit sad, even buoyed by Mads' prevailing optimism. "No, I'd never say that to you."

They kissed then, and it was a desperate clinging sort of kiss, defiant against whatever they might consider a threat to their delicately-constructed sanctuary.


	6. Act Four: Climax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Committed; in so many ways, but especially to that romance so obliquely written. Their portrayal would be far more obvious...to everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's an obvious metaphor...I am easily amused.

"Can't believe I managed to pry you away from all that!"

A complimentary suite which they had commandeered and locked themselves within, ensuring the drapes were drawn against all possible voyeurs - secrecy in the 21st Century was such a concerted effort.

"I made the time, I always make the time for you," Mads asserted. "Did you know that soap bubbles can defy the laws of physics by occupying the exact same space at the same time and still maintain their separate autonomy?"

Hugh laughed. "That's rather random, luv. Sounds like a science video or something Carl would have told you about."

"It's how I think of us," Mads said, shedding his festival wear of designer suit, "we can defy any number of constraints and classifications."

"And contradictions." Hugh smiled and his suit followed Mads' suit onto a nearby chair. They laid waste to the bed, pulling away the duvet and sheets, scattering pillows and succumbing to its feather-and-foam embrace once they were clothed only in their mutual lust, spurred on by the occasion: thousands were jammed into all the narrow crevices of Cannes, and here was a luxurious moment created just for them, and they each ached so badly for the other they could not stop themselves from enacting the scenario even though it was patently risky and morally ambiguous.

This was an expression of the power they now held, now felt. To demand the luxury of being rebellious in a way known only to themselves.

 

Mads tended to think Hugh sounded so strange when he had an orgasm - a wrenching groan, as if he were a piece of machinery protesting against extreme effort. The smell of sweat and semen hung in the air: earthy exhalations of their once joined, now distant bodies, the sheet beneath them equally sticky and damp. Panting breaths slowly growing calm and measured. Hugh looking as if he truly mourned the loss of his composure.

"Do you always look so sad?" Mads asked, turning towards Hugh; he was on his back and the other on his stomach, his face half-buried in a pillow.

"When I come, you mean?"

"Yes."

"You asked me that the first time, don't you remember?"

Mads laughed at himself. "I must have been delirious."

Hugh mock-grimaced in response. "Well one would _hope_."

They both laughed. "See, I'm not sad now," Hugh continued.

Mads stroked the tangle of curls. "But were you?"

"I'm a sad bastard, you know that. I always think about how _after_ something happens it always seems better or worse than what you actually experienced."

"So in the moment it's the best thing, and afterwards it's the worst?"

The portion of Hugh's cheek that he could see mottled in the wake of the question.

"I'm not trying to imply -"

"It doesn't mean anything to anything else. Do _you_ remember that's what I said?"

Mads sat up and reached for a cigarette. Hugh remained within his slump and declined to answer. After a long first inhale and exhale Mads reached down and stroked Hugh's spine.

"There is nothing better than having you exactly _when_ I want to have you."

Hugh rolled over and Mads handed him the cigarette. "Nothing better than anything else?"

Mads smiled. "Nope. It is the very best thing of me and you."

Hugh ruminated over a drag. "Hmm," he murmured, sighing out smoke. "I think I like eating with you better than fucking you."

Mads laughed, taking back the cigarette and attempting to look offended. "Am I that awful?"

"It's just - it's difficult to explain - a feeling I get. I can imagine us having dinner together for the rest of our lives, you know? And that's what I like to think about, knowing you forever."

Beyond the pristine white walls hung with tasteful art, and the thick soft carpet which absorbed all footfalls, Mads could hear the traffic and the crowd and all the responsibilities and obligations and connections and expectations which came between them. Not to exclude or to interfere, but the general rhythm of life and labor.

"You're right, your company is the best thing."

"Though I wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers, as they say."

Another laugh. "What does that mean, even?"

"What I want to know is why anyone would be eating crackers in bed. Now some chocolate, that's always a good idea, but -"

They went on talking this way for a while, savoring their privacy. A day later, during dinner at Mantel, while Hanne and Claire discussed the latest books they had read, Mads had leaned across the table and whispered "Should I have the fois gras?"

Hugh bit his lip, it was as if Mads was asking to fellate him under the table.

"You love fois gras."

"I know, but -" Mads breathed, there was no mistaking the sexual undertone of his intonation. He licked his lips and pinned Hugh in an amber-tinted smolder. "I feel so naughty these days, eating it."

Hugh snickered into his glass of wine. "You are the _worst_ , Mikkelsen, I swear upon my sainted aunt."

"And what would she have to say about fois gras?"

Hugh put his head in his arms and laughed helplessly. The wives looked over with raised eyebrows and Mads shrugged. "I think we may need to feed him soon before things get interesting." Claire rolled her eyes in an affectionately teasing sort of way.

"If you ever marry an Englishman," she counseled her friend, "just remember that they like to drink. A lot."

"I guess Mads thinks he's English sometimes too," Hanne answered with a wink.

 

"Mads, what did you say to Bryan? The man was practically trying to squirm out of his suit!"

Hugh paced in his apartment, frustrated to hit voicemail, but knowing his message required no greeting or context of any kind. He had returned from lunch with their loveable Mad Genius, as they liked to refer to him, and Bryan had been weirdly circumspect. Normally he had little-to-no filter and things would just pop directly from his Id to his mouth.

"Has anyone you've ever co-starred with **not** wanted to kiss you? I mean, seriously, Hugh, like, other cast members just going for it when it's not even in the scene?"

This was one such conversational gambit which arose out of nowhere on a cold-as-Hades-frozen-over day while filming a forensic scene.

"I gotta question for you, Lecter," Laurence said, turning to Mads. "Why can't you murder anyone in the motherfucking summer?! I'm freezing my goddamn nuts off here!"

Mads grinned, drawing himself up to the supercilious height of his alter-ego. "The meat takes longer to spoil in winter, Uncle Jack. It is entirely a matter of logistics."

"Uh, there may have been a few guerilla kisses in my past, sure," Hugh demurred. "Not that I was asking for it or anything."

Bryan cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Uh-huh."

Mads came up behind Hugh and put an arm around him, then grabbed his scruffy chin with the other hand. "A face like that? C'mon my wee man, you're _begging_ for it!"

"I'm not a fucking hobbit, you arse!" But Hugh was laughing as he said it, to assure his audience it was meant with love.

Laurence grinned. "You **are** short though, dude. Not sayin' it's a bad thing, but -"

At this point Guillermo picked up his bullhorn. "Uh guys...can we maybe film something today? Possibly?"

"Oh my god, we're having an important discussion here!" Bryan declared with humorous emphasis.

"Guillermo, am I short?" Hugh asked.

"Well yeah, but that doesn't make you any less of a man!"

The director's hope of filming the scene sometime in the next half-hour was derailed by that particular quip as everyone cracked up, including the target of his observation.

Hugh smiled at the memory, but then frowned slightly as he thought of what Bryan had said.

"Have you talked to Mads about the Red Dragon arc? Because he's pretty much insisting that it's really about Will realizing that he still wants to be with Hannibal."

"Well, we've talked about how their relationship is the story, you know? You agree with that, don't you?"

"Oh sure, I just didn't know if **you** did."

"Me?"

"Well, I think that you and Mads might have different opinions, kinda. Maybe."

"What did he say?"

"I think you two need to talk. You should figure it out, what you want to express."

"We want to express what's in the scripts. That's our job."

Bryan sighed, ate a piece of salmon. "Sure, but, you've got to know by now that what everyone is really watching is the two of you. Not to discount anybody else, but -"

"The Fannibals figured it out before we did."

"They just interpreted it, is all. I think your motivations are whatever they are, you're neither confirming nor denying. But Mads seems to think we **should** know, one way or the other. Because this might be our last chance."

Hugh set down his fork, blinking with a sudden fear, like the proverbial waddle of a goose on his grave.

"Oh god, I didn't even think about that!"

"Yeah, well, I'm always thinking about it. Just call me Balky Bryan."

Hugh took a drink of water, cleared his throat, then went back to searching for the chicken in his salad. "I don't think Will really knows. Or he's afraid to look too hard. I'm not trying to stand in the way of anything, this just feels true to what I know of him."

Bryan leaned forward and placed his hand on Hugh's arm. "I think Mads believes that Hannibal has always been in love with Will and this has all been a long campaign, or whatever, towards making him realize that without actually saying it."

"But you wouldn't write that."

"I don't _have_ to, that's the point. I have thought about it, but -"

"What is friendship, what do you mean by that?"

"Hugh, that's a question for Mads, not for me."

And as he paced, and stood by the window, and fought the urge to pour himself a shot of something to smooth out the jittery feeling taking hold of him, Hugh knew what Mads would say, how he would answer the question. Anticipated the shiver and awaited the ecstasy of the revelation: speaking in tongues and teeth and touch. Screaming, even. And loving the scream as it was wrung out of him.


	7. Intermission: What happens at YYZ stays in the VIP Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Committed; in so many ways, but especially to that romance so obliquely written. Their portrayal would be far more obvious...to everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are...having reached the point where this stuff just writes itself, amirite? A "digital strategist" is An Actual Thing, though, honestly.

Hugh blamed it on the boredom of airports. And the unholy influence of their Mad Genius, for whom fanworks were a sacred pact between himself and the fanbase. But a digital strategist had once advised Hugh to disavow all knowledge of social media because, as she put it, "So many people have boundary issues, especially for a man of your attractiveness." She had blushed when uttering that final word, as punctuation of a sort, and he felt the same sense of stuttering awkwardness he used to experience at Uni when people stared at him, unable to control their reactions to his pleasing symmetry. But every man of his age was wholly familiar with the Internet, unless said 40-ish man was either purposely rejecting the electronic teat or only used it for the things men tended to use it for: email, porn, and fantasy football (either version). So a certain constructed obliviousness was necessary.

The VIP Lounge was meant to be a quiet haven from the noise and hoards and intrusiveness of the public broadcast system. He could calmly wait to board his flight with whatever distractions he had to hand, and someone would come along and efficiently guide him to his gate with a minimum of attention called to his personage. He could indulge himself in a serving of poutine from Urban Crave, something he would only do at Toronto Pearson, as succumbing to this particular craving on a regular basis would be dangerous for his waistline, to say nothing of his face.

The first time they were scheduled to participate in a fan event once the show began airing - for which he was contractually obligated to appear, as usual - Bryan had held a session of what he called "Fannibal Boot Camp" to give his stars an idea of what fans were likely to ask in the Q&A as well as how their general demeanor would manifest itself.

"Our fans are _passionate_ , not weird. They love us, they love the show, they defend it to the death, and we must always remember to be grateful."

But Bryan was used to passionate fans and their cosplay, their drawings, their shrieks of delight to encounter him at conventions. He was pretty much a rockstar of quirky television programming all on his own. Hugh understood he was entering a world unlike any other, and he had to be prepared for the flower-crowned frenzy of it all.

But nothing had prepared him for the fanfiction.

Bryan, the production staff, the writers, they were all avowed fanfiction addicts as soon as stories began to appear in online archives.

"If fans - lots of fans - are writing fanfic about your show? Then you've won the hearts and minds battle for sure," Loretta assured him when he initially balked at the suggestion that he should take a peek.

"Isn't there some sort of legal issue, like we have to pretend we don't know it exists?"

Bryan's response to that was intense, to say the least.

"I would be spitting in everyone's face if I didn't acknowledge these things! People are spending so much time and effort to express their love and their joy in what we do, wouldn't it be ungrateful to just ignore it?"

There was so much official/fandom interaction one might say it was downright incestuous. But the actual money behind the show let it all ride, in the hopes that the meme-like tendencies of the online world would translate into actual viewers in a steady ever-increasing progression.

"This is the 21st century already, you can't expect that fans will act the same as fans from 20 years ago! You have to embrace the online fandom, not ignore them."

And oh my stars, they did not act the same at all. Everybody traded links to stories and fan art, the sheer volume of it was _insane_. Hugh maintained plausible deniability about most of it, but it was a favorite topic of conversation once large quantities of alcohol were ingested. Scott was especially piqued that no one was writing "Preller," as the pairing of Price and Zeller was apparently portmanteau'ed.

"Hannigram, Hanni-fucking-gram, that's all there is!"

"You should never fuck your immediate co-worker," Hugh counseled, mock-gravely. "That's never a good idea."

"Well who else **is** he gonna fuck? These guys work crazy hours and smell like corpses!"

"I know, right?" Aaron exclaimed. "There's not much going for them except each other."

"Thank you, darling," Scott said, raising his martini.

"Wait, wait, wait now," Laurence cut in from behind his pint, "what about you and the missus there?"

"No, not during filming. We were honestly friends first, I swear it. But that was also my vow to myself at that point: no more entanglements with anyone I didn't genuinely like as a person."

"I broke the rule," Mads declared cheerfully. "From the first day, though it took me a while to convince Hanne I wasn't just another flaky dancer boy. But anyway, I read a Hannigram, I think? While back? I tell you, it was fucking hot!"

"Some of them are, sure," Hugh noted and a chorus of hooting arose.

 **"Oh really?!"** Caroline crowed. "And which ones have you read?"

"I can't remember the titles. I only like the dirty ones, though. And the funny ones, there's a thing they call them -"

"Crackfic," Scott said, which drew more laughter. "No seriously, I shit you not."

"There are some really funny ones, for sure. Every time Bryan sends me a link I'm, like, dude, what is this you're getting me into, and he always says, 'Read the tags and the rating, Aaron, it's not that hard!'"

"That's what Hannibal said," Mads deadpanned, and the entire table roared with drunken laughter.

 

Sitting alone in one of the booths in the lounge, beer half-drunk, poutine consumed, email and texts dispatched, Hugh considered his tablet and his phone before him. He was enjoying the relative silence, he remembered that on days off from the theatre he used to enjoy the luxury of not having to speak at all, if he so chose. There were intrusive aspects to modern life, but he was a modern lad, wasn't he? The latest David Mitchell tome awaited in his carry-on, and it _was_ interesting, but...

There was a weird sort of privacy in the chair. Under the skilled hands of the hair and makeup technicians Hugh was merely a thing, a mannequin, and it was a painstaking process, as his appearance was carefully cross-checked with numerous photographs for continuity. Whatever else he might be doing to pass the time - reading, listening to a podcast, taking a phone call or checking his email, having a conversation with someone - they did not intrude upon it, did not appear to acknowledge it, and he imagined that was one of the expected abilities of their order: to ignore the actual human actions of their charges.

And that is where the curiosity began: to read the fantasies of others, wondering if they managed to parse potential and subtext from their actual performances that he and Mads were not even aware of, the sublimations of their existing intimacy. The tension they were encouraged to explore but only to show, not tell.

"Hugh, are you reading dirty stories? Send me one!" Mads called out from the other side of the trailer.

Muted snickering hung in the air with the scent of product and pancake. He couldn't reply _oh you fucking cunt_ because the politesse of the Canadian crew must not breached. Instead, he searched through the collection of links on his tablet, finding a particular salacious scenario which he copied and pasted, then sent.

"Enjoy!" he called out, and was rewarded minutes later with a whistle and a "Whoo boy!" in response.

Throughout the day, during their scenes together, Mads smirked at Hugh between takes, winked just before **Action!** was called, and Hugh had to call upon every ounce of training not to break character and snigger like the schoolboy he felt he was at that moment.

... _the siren song of Hannigram_ , he thinks of it now. Too late to stop his ears, avert his eyes, sail away from the rocks of revelation. The longer he contemplates it, the more he thinks: who **wouldn't** want to write X-rated stories involving a fallen angel so seductive and cultured. Everything to set the mood, first-class all the way: food, wine, music, conversation, atmosphere. 

Just like the way Mads had seduced him, though in a less pristine setting. 

"You are a particularly wanton sort of boy, aren't you?" Mads once asked him, when they lay sweating and gasping upon the figurative shore of their mutual satisfaction, and he had smiled. Genuinely agreeable and genuinely desiring.

Because he was, _of course_ he was, despite his general aura of Regency-era romantic lead, he was as earthy and bawdy and wanton as anyone who enjoys the pleasures Life has to offer. And Life had offered _so many_ opportunities, after all.

Many of these stories were good. Really really good. Surprisingly good, in that they were well-written and exhibited an understanding of the existing canon to rival any show bible. And the sex, well, if people always envisioned the sex scenes they read by putting themselves into the action, then it had been tailor-made for him, as it were.

So to stave off the boredom of airports he read fanfiction and indulged the pornographic landscape of his mind, smirking to himself and being thankful in a way he would never ever publicly acknowledge. And sending those he thought were the very best examples to his co-star, usually quoting a particular passage as the subject line. Though sometimes the labels were better for that sort of thing. _Accidental anal_ was one which never failed to crack him up, knowing that Mads would find it equally hilarious, and would respond with something like, "How does that actually happen?"

"Think about it," Hugh replied. "Think about it long and hard."

And he then would giggle into his cupped palms at his silly naughtiness.


End file.
